


A Good Many Family Trees Are Shady

by blackkat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Torchwood
Genre: 5+1, Angst, Family, Gen, Humor, M/M, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Or, five times Ianto Jones called Mycroft Holmes 'Tad', and one time Mycroft called Ianto 'Son.')</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Many Family Trees Are Shady

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Скрытые ветви генеалогического древа](https://archiveofourown.org/works/522858) by [Bathilda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bathilda/pseuds/Bathilda)
  * Translation into Deutsch available: [A Good Many Family Trees Are Shady](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10426971) by [DaintyCrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaintyCrow/pseuds/DaintyCrow)



> The title is from a quote by Robert Elliott Gonzales. For a prompt on the Sherlock kink meme that grabbed me and wouldn’t let go.

**1.**

There's a large black car waiting outside when Ianto wakes up.

He can't see it, what with the curtains drawn over the bedroom windows and all of the lights off, but he can hear the hum of the engine in the street below. It’s just after three in the morning—the witching hour—and everything else is quiet.

Then, as though aware of his attention—which Ianto really wouldn't put past the caller—his phone vibrates once, again, a third time, and then falls silent.

For the first time in his life, Ianto considers not answering that particular signal.

Still, no matter how tired he is, or heartsick, or battered, he’s never _not_ answered this particular caller, and he can't find it in himself to start now. So, the next time the phone begins to vibrate, he picks it up, opens it, and holds it somewhat gingerly to his ear.

“Tad,” he acknowledges, and then winces, because he hasn't called his father “Tad” since he was twelve and his adoptive mother died. It’s telling about his current state of mind, and undermines any attempt to convince his father that he’s “fine” before he even starts.

“Ianto.” The voice on the other end of the line is soft and cultured, no trace of Ianto’s Welsh lilt to be found. “Would you care to tell me why I had to receive news of your continued existence through survivor lists, rather than a personal call?”

Ianto flinches, just a little, and steels himself against the temptation to glance out towards the living room, where a rewired conversion unit is the only thing keeping Lisa alive. “I'm sorry,” he manages, and his father will hopefully never know just what it is Ianto is apologizing for. “I just—I wanted time to mourn. Privacy.” But he’s already calculating the maximum amount of time he can be away from Lisa, half-converted as she is, before he has to head for Torchwood Three and Cardiff. “You're downstairs.”

“Of course, my boy.” Warmth, finally, instead of faintly wounded worry. “I don't have long; there's a council in two hours to deal with the aftermath of Yvonne’s stupidity. But I wanted to see that you were still breathing with my own eyes.”

Ianto staggers out of bed, wincing as burned flesh pulls painfully and strained muscles protest his uneasy sleep. “On my way,” he says simply, and closes the phone as he hurries back into his clothes. The suit he’d been wearing earlier—and god, was it still only today that this bloody tragedy had happened?—is discarded in a charred, crumpled heap, good only for tripping him as he half-falls out the door of the flat. He avoids the elevator in favor of the stairs, remembering an endless, terrifying hour trapped in a car at the Torchwood Tower, even though his body protests.

But that’s all right, because there's a man waiting for him at the bottom—like he’d known, like he’d understood, because he’s one of the few who ever really will understand what Torchwood is, and just what happened in the Battle of Canary Wharf. It’s a man dressed in an exquisitely tailored suit, carrying an umbrella and wearing a look of deep concern where he’d normally only show smugness or amused disdain.

“Tad,” Ianto says again, faltering at the foot of the stairs, but it doesn't matter. The man takes one look at him and crosses the space between them with utterly controlled steps, and seizes Ianto’s arm.

“You're well,” he says, and it’s somewhere between a question and a statement. Ianto has to smile a little at that. He’s possibly the only person in the whole world—and perhaps several galaxies, probably depending on where the Doctor is at the moment—who can make Mycroft Holmes doubt his own deductions.

“Yes,” he answers anyway, because Mycroft will demand he visit a doctor otherwise, and Ianto can't leave Lisa alone that long, not now. “Some burns and bruises, but I’ll be fine.”

It would probably be more convincing if his voice didn't break on the last word.

Mycroft gives him a sharp look and then nods, just once. He doesn't let go, but uses his grip on Ianto’s arm to pull him towards the waiting car. “You will be,” he agrees, and it’s an order wrapped up in a reassurance. “Perhaps not now, but in time. And the best thing to hurry that along is a good meal and some rest. I can provide the first.”

Ianto, used to being hustled in this manner whenever his father is even the least bit concerned, only rolls his eyes a bit and allows himself to be propelled into the car. He tries not to feel like a damsel being kidnapped in a bad mob film, but it’s difficult. His father has a flair for the dramatic—the needlessly dramatic, sometimes, but Ianto has learned to put up with it.

Mycroft’s PA/ninja/bodyguard/Igor—Ianto’s never figured out just what she _does_ , and it drives him mad—looks back from the driver’s seat as he slides in, and smiles.

“Still Proserpina?” he asks politely, offering her a weak smile.

She tips her head to one side, considering carefully. “It’s rather a mouthful.”

“Maybe something Greek this time,” Mycroft suggests, closing the door behind him. “I'm personally rather fond of Hera.”

A wrinkled nose is the only answer, and Ianto stifles another smile. He’s still grieving, still shell-shocked, but his father and his father’s PA never fail to lighten his mood. “Anthea,” he offers. “I think Hera suits you, but it’s a bit blatant.”

Another tip of her head, but she actually seems to be considering it. “A possibility. Almost sounds like Athena.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes and taps the tip of his umbrella against the floor. “Perhaps think about it while we drive? There's a fairly decent Chinese restaurant six blocks over.”

Of course, from the man who is the British government, “fairly decent” translates to “astonishingly good,” so Ianto doesn't protest. He leans back in the seat and closes his eyes as the PA pulls out, and lets his body sink into the deep, comfortable leather upholstery. Mycroft is watching him, a father’s concerned eyes rather than an official’s assessing ones, but Ianto can feel the weight of his gaze.

Eventually, Mycroft is the one to break the heavy silence. “MI6 would be beyond pleased to have you back, if you cared to stay in London,” he says, voice carefully bland. “And there are always openings for people of your talents in my department.”

It’s an unassuming sentence, cautiously crafted to put no pressure on Ianto to do anything, but it nevertheless drives home the image of the cyber conversion unit in his living room, the woman he loves strapped to it and in constant agony. So perhaps it’s forgivable when his voice emerges broken and slightly shaking.

“I thought I’d try my luck in Cardiff, actually. I hear Captain Harkness has an opening on his staff.”

Mycroft looks at him, watches him, and says nothing.

(That probably should have been Ianto’s first clue.)

**2.**

Six hours into Ianto’s four-week suspension, his mobile beeps. Just once, innocuous and unthreatening. Ianto stares at it for a long moment, then picks it up and dials a number from memory. He doesn't have to look at the text to know whom it’s from, or who is doubtless waiting outside of his flat right now.

“Tad,” he says as soon as the other end picks up. “I'm sorry. I'm so—”

“Hush,” Mycroft interrupts sternly. “I am aware of what has happened. All I wish to know are your reasons, Ianto.”

Despite the words and how they could be interpreted as condemnation, there's only empathy in his voice. Ianto closes his eyes and swallows sharply, throat sore and voice hoarse with too many tears and screams and shouts in the past day—everything he’s been holding back, all the grief from Canary Wharf and Lisa’s slow surrender to the programming and the fear of keeping here in the Hub and the agony of betraying Jack over and over and over again.

Every kiss, every touch, all of it—it’s all been a lie.

It terrifies Ianto that he regrets that nearly as much as Lisa’s death.

“I loved her,” he whispers, voice barely audible, and hopes his father can hear, because this is the last time he’ll ever say this. The last time he’ll ever speak of the future he wanted, the woman with whom he thought he could have it. “I loved her so much, Tad, and all I wanted to do was fix her. But then there was Jack, and Tosh, and Gwen—even Owen. And—I got distracted. If I’d worked harder, if I’d focused on her instead of the team, I might have—”

“You might have unleashed a Cyberwoman on the world a few days sooner,” Mycroft cuts in, merciless in his truthfulness. A long pause as they both digest that, and then a sigh as Mycroft orders, “Ianto, my boy, come down to the car. I'm taking you away from here.”

A jolt of fear hits Ianto squarely in the chest, and he wonders at it even as he chokes on a denial. He doesn't _want_ to leave. He wants to stay at Torchwood, to try and earn back what he lost bringing a Cyberman into the base.

He wants to stay.

He’s never really wanted that before.

But then the door of his tiny flat is opening and his father is standing around there, looking around the loft with quiet disdain. Ianto sees his eyes alight on the boxes of Lisa’s belongings, taken from the warehouse where Torchwood had stored them, and Mycroft's lips tighten.

“Oh, my dear boy,” he sighs, turning that sharp gaze on Ianto, full of sympathy and regret. “I'm so sorry that I never noticed.”

Ianto hadn’t realized it before, but it’s true. He’s _angry_ that Mycroft never saw through his plans, that the man who sees everything, who controls everything in England and possibly most everything elsewhere didn't see what his son was doing, didn't _save_ him from it. It’s not a fair feeling, not even remotely, but those words assuage it. They make it _better_ , when Ianto hadn’t thought it ever could be.

He lets go, gives in, and with a muttered, “Tad,” lets Mycroft take him away from his tiny, cluttered flat, filled with the rubble of a life no longer his.

Mycroft sprawls elegantly in the car as they head away from Cardiff, possibly-Anthea in the driver’s seat again. When Ianto finally manages to meet his father’s eyes, Mycroft smiles at him, and says, “Not forever, of course, dear boy. You're needed here, and I need an in with Torchwood. But a break does everyone some good once in a while, wouldn't you say?”

His father is an overbearing, controlling bastard, and Ianto’s never been more grateful for it.

*.~.*.~.*

There is a man waiting for them when they finally reach Mycroft's London house. He’s extremely tall, extremely thin, and wearing what must be the most petulant expression Ianto’s ever seen outside of a two-year-old.

Ianto glances at the aggrieved set to his father’s features and assumes this must be his wayward uncle, Sherlock.

Mycroft sighs, but makes no attempt to hide Ianto, chivvying him out of the car and through the front door with his duffle bag. “Second floor, third room on your right,” he directs. “I’ll be along in a moment, don't worry.” Then he turns to face his brother, closing the door firmly behind him.

It’s not quite enough to keep Ianto from hearing the scathing, “Taking in strays, now, Mycroft?” from the other man.

“Well, that would be your area of expertise, Sherlock,” Mycroft answers blandly. “Was there something you needed?”

“John's location,” Sherlock spits, and it sounds like it’s a painful admission. “He seems to have been kidnapped.”

Ianto may not be the best at reading people most of the time—that's Gwen’s area, really, and he’s glad to leave her to it—but he does work with Owen; it’s easy enough to hear the deep concern and nervousness underneath the acid and condescension once he _listens_.

Mycroft's umbrella taps thoughtfully against the stairs. “Hm. I’d suspected as much, when you didn't start with your usual mental disassembling of my guest. Very well, I’d be happy to do this favor for my little brother.”

And that’s Mycroft all over, smug and superior and secure in his knowledge of everything that goes on in London, down to the very last sneeze. Ianto leans back against the wall and smiles to himself, knowing he shouldn't find it nearly as reassuring as he does, but unable to help himself.

“Tad,” he says, once Sherlock is safely gone and Mycroft is inside, the outside world safely behind a heavy steel-and-oak door. Then his throat closes, he chokes, and the rest of the words won't come.

Mycroft seems to understand anyway. He drops a hand on Ianto’s shoulder and squeezes once, which is their equivalent of a full-body hug.

“I know, my boy,” he murmurs. “I know.”

**3.**

Ianto is the one to make contact the next time, battered and bruised and nursing a moderate concussion from the bloody clan of inbred cannibals lurking in the Welsh countryside. He happily accepts Owen’s decree of two weeks mandatory leave—which leaves them all fairly suspicious, he knows, but it amuses him to think of them going through his apartment for any hints of another Cyberwoman; he’s always had a fairly twisted sense of humor like that—and books a ticket for London.

Surprisingly, there's no car waiting for him when he arrives. That’s never happened before, no matter how busy Mycroft is or how early his flight, so he texts Anthea a question and gets an address in response. It’s a park Ianto knows fairly well, as Mycroft likes to take tea there when he’s interrogating and/or politely kidnapping someone. Wondering what poor sod he’s trapped there today, Ianto gets a cab and tries to keep from rolling his eyes too much. It makes his head hurt.

The cabbie looks at him askance when he relays the address, but doesn't argue. It’s doubtless not the strangest place he’s taken airport arrivals to, and Ianto knows that even with all of his injuries, he’s still very easy to write off as normal.

“Here,” he says when they've arrived, “just let me off on the corner, thanks.” He slips to man an extra note to make up for the distance and slides out, carefully easing his duffle bag over one shoulder. His back twinges, all one huge bruise, made worse by hours in uncomfortable seats, but he ignores it and the faint tremors of horror whenever he thinks about the fact that he was almost _eaten_ by another _human_. Aliens, at least, he can understand, because he’s not one of them and therefore very possibly a logical addition to their diet.

But another man, getting ready to carve chunks out of his flesh and eat him like a particularly fine steak—

That horrifies him to a degree that he may never manage to eat meat again.

There's a black car parked some distance away, and Ianto heads for it fairly gingerly, each step reminding him that Owen had made his decree so Ianto would _rest_ , not go traipsing around London looking for his errant father.

(Not that Owen knows Ianto’s father is the possible shadow-overlord of the world; no one does, as Ianto had been adopted as an infant in secret, for his own protection.)

Anthea (and she seems very fond of this name, since she’s kept it this long already; Ianto tries not to be flattered) meets him at the edge of a small copse, Blackberry still chemically bonded to her palms. “Sorry,” she offers without looking up. “Something called him away unexpectedly, or he would have been there to meet you. We got the news about Brynblaidd this morning, and he’s been in a right state ever since.”

Ianto fights down a shudder at the name; if he never has to think of that place again, he’ll die a very happy man.

When he looks up again, Anthea’s eyes are on him, narrowed in concern. She frowns a little and reaches out as if to touch him, only to stop at the last moment. That speaks more of her worry than anything else—usually, she’s free with her touches around him, even if she isn’t with anyone else. Ianto is grateful for it, though—touch, any touch, reminds him of that cleaver at his throat, those pawing hands he might have been able to dismiss if they were sexual. But they weren’t, they were worse: people who saw him as less than human, meat to be enjoyed and a fun hunt and nothing more.

He offers her a fairly weak smile and says, “I’ll be fine.”

It seems those words are becoming a mantra of late.

There's a tea table set up in the middle of the copse, where it opens into a bit of a clearing surrounded by a handful of young oaks. Mycroft lounges in one seat, insomuch as anyone can lounge while still maintaining perfect posture, teacup in hand and desert tray in the center of the table. In the other chair, military-straight and face set, like it’s a hostile situation rather than a pleasant teatime, is a shorter man, hair a nondescript dishwater blond that's beginning to go grey, features lined and weatherworn but still pleasant and open. His hands, when they move, have the kind of absent but controlled grace that Ianto’s seen in Owen’s, hands that know they might be called upon at any moment to save a life.

 _Soldier,_ Ianto categorizes, filing the knowledge away where it might someday be needed. _Doctor, tan has faded so he’s probably been discharged. Steady hands, but he sits faintly turned to the left, as though protecting that side. Wounded, probably, and invalided home._

He’s not Mycroft, or Sherlock, who can read a man’s history in how he does his tie, but he’s observant enough to pass, when he wants to.

Ianto doesn't bother wondering who this man is, or why he’s here with Mycroft. It doesn't matter anymore, because Ianto’s ribs are about to stage a revolt and his gut hurts and his head is throbbing, and all he can think is _‘Tad.’_ Thankfully, he recalls himself before he says anything out loud, but he must make some sort of sound, because Mycroft looks up. His dark eyes settle on Ianto instantly, widening, and he pushes to his feet.

“Ianto,” he says, and it’s somewhere between surprise, contrition, concern, and relief. Apparently, no one told him of Ianto’s arrival. Ianto slants a look at Anthea, who just smiles brightly.

“You're welcome,” she murmurs, and her fingertips touch just lightly to his shoulder before she’s pulling away, making room for Mycroft, who grips Ianto’s arms and pulls him close. It’s not quite a hug, because they haven’t done that since Ianto was a small child, but Mycroft hangs onto his forearms and rests his forehead light against Ianto’s, and simply breathes.

For a long moment, they're both silent, settling into the easy warmth that's always been between them. Then Mycroft sighs, breath tickling Ianto’s face, and says, “You will be the death of me, my boy.”

“Sorry, Tad,” Ianto murmurs. “Bloody Torchwood.”

“Bloody Torchwood,” Mycroft agrees, and raises his head. Somehow, while they were both distracted, another chair and place setting have appeared at the table, and Anthea has vanished. Ianto takes it without questions when Mycroft indicates he should, groaning faintly with relief as he hits the seat.

The soldier is watching them with fairly wide eyes, so Ianto offers him a smile and inclines his head. “Doctor,” he offers in greeting. “I hope your recovery went well?”

The man’s face contorts comically, and then goes utterly still. He blinks, shakes his head, and then turns incredulous eyes to Mycroft. “Bloody hell. _Another_ one?” he demands.

Taking a sip of perfectly sweetened tea, Ianto wonders idly if he should be offended.

Mycroft's brows rise, and he looks faintly shocked. “My, my, Doctor Watson,” he says after a moment. “Sherlock does seem to be rubbing off on you, though even he hasn't deduced this particular relationship. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Doctor Watson sounds practically faint.

Being a—mostly—good-natured soul, Ianto takes pity on him, and kicks his father gently in the shin. Mycroft sends him a warning glance, but drawls, “Indeed. John Watson, meet my son, Ianto Jones. He works with a special operations team out of Cardiff.”

They both murmur the requisite greetings, but Watson still looks concerned. He looks at Mycroft, obviously confused, and asks, “Sherlock doesn't know you have a son?”

“No.” Mycroft makes the word final, with a good dose of warning for added measure. “He was unfortunately rather fond of cocaine during the pregnancy and the birth, and after that I was forced to let a couple in Cardiff adopt my infant son, not having as much…clout back then. Sherlock has only met him once, as a stranger. Until events force my hand, I would prefer to keep it that way.” His smile is dangerous and mostly insincere. “For the safety of all involved, of course.”

Clearly sensing that the topic is closed, Watson nods and lets it drop. Instead, he turns to Ianto and says, with the air of a man determined to make polite small talk or die valiantly in the attempt, “Special operations, yeah? That how you got all of that?”

Since it’s hardly a secret what went on in Brynblaidd, the national news jumping on such a disturbing story, Ianto nods and answers, “Cannibals. In Wales. They fancied us as dinner. Had a whole fridge full of pieces of people, too.”

It’s a testament to just how strong his stomach is that Watson doesn't even flinch. He just nods, takes a sip of tea, and says, “My flatmate—your uncle, I suppose—likes to keeps body parts around the flat. I can't image being dinner, but the second part was probably a bit like going to look for the milk and finding a human head in the fridge.”

John Watson, Ianto realizes quite quickly as he laughs, is someone he most definitely appreciates.

Mycroft is watching him again, but this time it’s more amused and deeply fond than worried. Ianto rather suspects that he feels the same about John, even if he’d never show it.

**4.**

When news comes in of the bombings in Cardiff, Mycroft is too busy to call his son and check that he’s well. There's too much damage control to be done on his side, and he’s sure that Ianto is equally immersed in things. So, while he worries, he doesn't worry as much as he otherwise would, because Ianto is a strong, capable young man who will be an asset to Holmes family when Mycroft feels secure enough in his position to publically acknowledge him. Moreover, Captain Harkness’s team seems blessed with incredible luck, sliding in and out of deadly situations while keeping themselves intact, for the most part.

So Mycroft is concerned, but calm enough, in the wake of the disaster and his son’s continued silence.

And then a file comes across his desk bearing the title, “TORCHWOOD THREE:  NOTICE OF FATALITIES INCURRED IN THE LINE OF DUTY.”

For just a moment, Mycroft is quite certain that he’s dying.

Breath caught painfully in his throat, heart a sharp and jagged tattoo in his chest, he opens the folder and stares down at the two names printed in neat block letters.

HARPER, OWEN—MEDICAL SPECIALIST/FIELD AGENT

SATO, TOSHIKO—TECHNOLOGY SPECIALIST/FIELD AGENT

It’s not an announcement of the death of one Ianto Jones, general support agent, and despite the two deaths it does list, Mycroft cannot feel anything but grateful. Since he’s alone in his office, he lets his head drop into his hands, lets his fingers tremble with terror abruptly displaced.

 _Ianto, my boy,_ he thinks. _You really will be the death of me. Bloody Torchwood._

As soon as his hands are steady enough to punch the buttons correctly, he dials Ianto’s phone. For once, he has no patience to let it ring three times and then hang up, and wait for Ianto to call him back. Usually, it’s a precaution, because the Torchwood mobiles are enhanced with alien tech and can't be hacked or tapped, but right now Mycroft doesn't care who could be listening.

His son is in that disaster zone, and Mycroft will either get him on the phone or go down to Cardiff in person to make sure he’s still in one piece.

The folder lies open in front of him, mocking him with bleak thoughts of what could have been. Mycroft shoves it aside, even as he takes a breath to regain his composure.

It’s not enough. When Ianto’s exhausted, heartsick voice answers with a barely-heard “Tad?”, he nearly chokes on the relief surging up like bile in his throat.

“My boy,” he manages after a long moment. “Ianto, are you all right?”

It’s a foolish question, he knows very well, but his need to be reassured of that one simple, powerful thing is overwhelming.

Another, even lengthier pause, and then Ianto sighs. “Yeah, Tad,” he answers, and it’s wry and cynical in a way no twenty-four-year-old should be. “I’ll survive.”

 _Not like Tosh and Owen_ , remains unspoken, but clearly heard.

“Oh, my boy,” Mycroft murmurs, and then lets silence fill the space between them, simply listening to his son’s rough, weary breaths. He offers wordless support, unspoken comfort. Nothing’s fine, and it won't be fine again for a very long time, but Ianto is alive and Cardiff still stands.

That’s enough for today.

**5.**

The room is cold but brightly lit, which somehow manages to make it seem even chillier. Mycroft leans on his umbrella and stares through the glass partition at the body of his son, stretched out on a metal table like a corpse up for dissection.

Unfortunately, that assumption is only half wrong. No one is going to be dissecting Ianto Jones, but he is dead.

 _What is it for?_ Mycroft wonders idly, unable to pull his gaze from his son’s utterly still form. Humans aren’t ever meant to be that still, especially not Ianto, and it’s eerie. _All the power of the government, what use is it if I can't even stop a fringe group from taking away what’s dearest to me?_

He hadn’t been able to find out the truth about what was happening until it was too late, until after Torchwood Three had been bombed and the entire team was on the run. And even then he’d been shut down at every turn, locked out of decisions he should have had the final say in. The result was the death of an innocent child, and Mycroft's son.

As much sympathy as he has for Jack Harkness and his grandson, Mycroft knows which one of the two deaths he mourns more.

“Mr. Holmes?” squeaks a short, rather mousy scientist, standing in the doorway with a clipboard clutched to his chest. When Mycroft turns to regard him with a flat gaze, the man gulps, but soldiers on. “What are you doing down here, sir? The—”

“I wanted to see him,” Mycroft says, cutting him off. He’s losing his hard-won charm with every moment he has to stare at the empty shell that was once his son, but he can't make himself turn away from Ianto for more than a few moments at a time. And, true to form, his gaze is already being pulled back, drawn like a magnet to true north, and held. “You said you had reached a breakthrough, Doctor Miller? Will we have a vaccine for the next time?”

(Because there will always be a next time; Mycroft knows that viscerally now. Ianto has—had—always told him that Torchwood’s work was more important than any other, and while Mycroft hadn’t exactly _doubted_ him, he hadn’t truly _believed_ like this either. But now, now he knows and will be prepared. Earth will not fall to an alien threat for as long as he can ensure, in person or otherwise.

 _‘Too little, too late,’_ a vicious little voice whispers in the back of his mind, but he drowns it out with plans and maneuvers and a mental catalogue of the leverage he will have to apply and to whom.)

“Yes, right.” Miller fiddles with his clipboard, flipping through papers— _nervous gesture, he already knows what’s on them but can't predict my reaction; he’s too idealistic to fit in with the other scientists here, twice divorced, one daughter, attended_ —

Mycroft cuts off the flow of thought before he does something unforgivably Sherlock-like and blurts out some staggeringly blunt observation.

“Doctor?” he prompts, voice dropping involuntarily to a slightly more threatening octave.

“He’s not dead,” Miller blurts. “There's no vaccine because it’s not a virus. It’s a dose of incredibly advanced nanites that induce a condition similar to a very deep state of cryogenic suspension. One of the techs from Level 9”—which does not exist, of course, and Mycroft makes an absent note to reiterate that in the next briefing—“was able to hack into the nanites’ programming and trigger a shutdown. There's a time limit, apparently, so it will only work for the victims we kept in cryogenic storage, but Agent Jones should be waking up some time today.”

Well.

That’s…

Unexpected.

The umbrella creaks warningly as it suddenly takes too much of Mycroft's weight, and he straightens up carefully to avoid damaging it—it was a gift from Ianto on Mycroft's birthday, several years ago now, and precious for that.

His eyes, though, never leave Ianto’s still— _too still, so still,_ deathly _still_ —form.

“You're certain?” he asks quietly, and it’s dangerous, hungry and angry and warning of violence. “Will there be any detrimental side effects? Will he retain his previous memories and personality?”

“As certain as can be, personally,” Miller says, and he’s braver than Mycroft had given him credit for, to willingly imply that he might be fallible. “I was considering the way the 456 used the virus, and it didn't fit. They're an advanced race, and this was a form of biological intimidation, but it was _clumsy_. They could have caused unimaginable suffering in their victims just by using a different virus, so why choose this one? It didn't make sense. So there had to be another reason. I went looking.” He shakes his head and comes to stand next to Mycroft at the window, looking down on Ianto with a kind of weary admiration. “I wouldn't have if you hadn’t insisted, though. This is thanks to you.”

Mycroft picks up his umbrella, turning it over and over in his fingers. His mind is numb, which is a disconcerting feeling he has become all too familiar with over the past two weeks since the Thames House massacre. _Alive_ , he repeats to himself. _Waking up today. As certain as can be_. Just phrases, bits of things that are nonsense out of context, but they soothe the ache that’s taken up residence in his chest just a little.

Breathing takes far more effort than it should.

Miller is still watching him, eyes suspiciously sympathetic. It makes Mycroft wonder what still-Anthea chose to tell him when she was sent to “motivate” him to work more quickly. She can be quite the bleeding heart at times, and has a rather blinding soft spot for Ianto.

(Who is no longer to be spoken of in past tense. Who is _alive_ , and Mycroft may never recover from learning this one simple fact.

If it’s real, if Ianto does wake up, Mycroft will never again conceal their relationship from anyone. He’ll go on BBC and announce it, shout it from the Tower and write it into every newspaper headline. Ianto Jones is his son.

He’ll make sure John gets a picture of Sherlock's expression, should he do so. It’s sure to be entertaining.)

“It’s safe to sit with him, if you’d like, Mr. Holmes,” Miller offers after a moment. “The waking up will be gradual, and it might help Agent Jones to have someone familiar around to orient himself.”

From anyone else, at any other time, in any other circumstance, Mycroft would soundly reject and stomp upon such ill concealed coddling. Now, he simply nods and makes for the door. There is a chair along the wall, and heedless of his dignity, he drags it over and sits down. One of his hands finds Ianto’s, and grips it tightly.

He counts the seconds until there is a pulse trembling beneath his fingertips.

He counts the minutes until those blue, blue eyes—exactly like his birth mother’s eyes, right down to the faint ring of grey around the pupil—flutter open.

It means there is plenty of time to ensure that he is the first thing Ianto sees when he rises from the dead like Lazarus (or very much similar to him, in any case). Plenty of time to be sure that Ianto’s first smile is directed solely at him, warm and sweet and still so very much the little boy of whom Mycroft keeps pictures hidden away in safety deposit boxes around the city. He’s perfect, that smile possibly the most wonderful thing Mycroft has seen since Ianto’s birth, when a tiny baby boy with a fluff of black hair was placed in his arms. And maybe it’s better, because right now Mycroft can appreciate just what kind of man Ianto has become when he looks at him and marvels, _‘This is from me. He is of me_. _I created this wonderful creature.’_

“Ianto,” he murmurs softly, folding his son’s hand in his own and marveling at the steady pulse of blood below the skin.

“Tad,” Ianto whispers back, still smiling. His voice is hoarse and painful and undoubtedly the loveliest thing Mycroft has ever heard.

**+1**

Because Ianto’s father is a ridiculous, masochistic man who thinks that emotions in himself are an incredible weakness and not to be broadcast, Ianto finds out about his Uncle Sherlock's suicide from the morning paper.

He spares all of twenty seconds to curse the man who spawned him as an overly dramatic, pigheaded arse with a greatly inflated ego, then kisses Jack goodbye (which takes rather longer than he’d planned; early-morning Jack is absolutely delicious), retrieves his emergency bag, and is on the train and headed for London without any time wasted.

(His and Jack's goodbye took a little under an hour, but Ianto’s not counting that, as it’s time well spent and most definitely not wasted.)

The train ride is long. It gives Ianto ample time to text his father—no answer, not that he was expecting one; Mycroft usually turns his phone off when he’s particularly upset—Anthea (no answer there, either, which means she’s off somewhere being a spy/assassin/right hand to the British Government) and Doctor Watson.

John actually responds.

_He was here an hour ago._

_Don't know where he is now._

_JW_

Ianto frowns at his mobile. If Mycroft isn’t with John, the closest thing he has to family in London, and he’s got his phone off, that means he’s somewhere he feels safe, where he feels he can mourn in peace.

It takes a moment, but when Ianto realizes where he most likely is, he closes his eyes in sympathetic grief and leans back into the seat.

 _Oh, Tad_.

*.~.*.~.*

St. Bart’s is subdued and more solemn that usual. Ianto slides past people walking around with grim, quiet expressions, and remembers that these people all knew Sherlock in one way or another. They might not have liked him, but they probably respected him and his genius. Now they're facing the realization that this man was nothing more than a fraud.

Not that Ianto believes that for a moment. Sherlock was a Holmes, after all.

(Apparently, he’s not the only one who doubts the papers, either; outside of St. Bart’s, some enterprising person has spray-painted ‘I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES' on the sidewalk in tall letters of a particularly eye-watering shade of yellow. And Ianto’s seen similar tags all over London.)

One of Mycroft's assistants is waiting at the bottom of the stairs to the roof. She opens her mouth to stop him, but Ianto fixes her with a long look and the words dry up.

He strides past her without pause.

There is a chilly wind blowing across the rooftop, whipping Ianto’s coat around his legs. He wraps the warm wool more tightly around himself and looks across the expanse to the tall, slim figure standing near the edge.

A long pause, and then Ianto says, “If you jump, too, I'm not going to stop until I’ve found another Resurrection Gauntlet and brought your sorry corpse back, Tad.”

Mycroft startles slightly at the sound of his voice, a sure sign of how deep in his grief he is. He turns, steady even when his world has shifted below him, and looks at Ianto with eyes so full of quiet anguish that Ianto wonders how anyone can see him and not break apart.

“Son,” he says, and the word breaks halfway through.

Ianto is across the roof before he can even remember moving, and even though neither of them is much for physical contact, he wraps his arms around his father’s body and pulls him close. He doesn't say he’s sorry, or that he misses his uncle even though they've never really met, or that it was a terrible thing, because Mycroft already knows all of that, and it won't help.

Mycroft lets out a long, slow breath and slumps forward to rest his forehead against Ianto’s shoulder.

They don't say anything.

They don't need to.

 **(+2**

The crack of his knuckles against that ridiculous jaw is equally ridiculously satisfying. As is the yelp and flurry of stork-limbs and wild black curls as Ianto’s uncle—newly returned from the dead, and really, Ianto’s had _far_ too much experience with situations like this—goes tumbling back to land on his arse from the unexpected blow.

“ _What_?” demands Sherlock, pressing a hand to his jaw and staring up at Ianto. Ianto carefully doesn't look at the snickering John Watson, the guffaws of the Detective Inspector Lestrade, or Jack's amusingly pained expression (he doubtless sympathizes, knowing just how hard Ianto can throw a punch).

“That’s for what you did to Tad,” he tells his uncle sharply. “I hope he hits you for it, too.”

There’s a moment of confusion on Sherlock's face before his grey eyes snap into focus, and then widen in horror.

A hand, warm and comforting, settles on Ianto’s shoulder, and Mycroft says in a voice rich with amusement, “Sherlock, meet my son, Ianto. Your nephew.” **)**

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Welsh Rugby Shirt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12421710) by [internetpiratearrr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/internetpiratearrr/pseuds/internetpiratearrr)




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